


Poison and Violins

by bonesinwaiting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Dark Sherlock, Evil Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moriarty POV, One Shot, Poor Jim, Psychopath, not graphic violence just violent themes, sort of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9419054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonesinwaiting/pseuds/bonesinwaiting
Summary: "He hit me and it felt like a kiss"Sherlock Holmes is darker than anyone can see. Jim Moriarty loves it.Sherlock Holmes hurts him, and Jim can't get enough.Nothing graphic, just the manipulation of emotions.. and a little violence. It's Moriarty though, lets be honest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> These characters do not belong to me, obviously.  
> Please let me know if there are any errors, this was a late night musing that wouldn't get out of my head when I heard Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey.

He hit me and it felt like a kiss  
This is ultraviolence  
I can hear sirens, sirens

He used to call me DN  
That stood for deadly nightshade  
'Cause I was filled with poison  
But blessed with beauty and rage

He hit me and it felt like a kiss  
I can hear violins, violins  
'Cause he was right beside me  
He hurt me but it felt like true love

The tricky thing with true psychopaths is that you never can see them, they slip entirely under the radar, hidden in plain sight. They’re not homicidal maniacs or abusive boyfriends, they’re impossibly quick witted and can be the most charming people you’ll ever meet. 

The tricky thing about Sherlock Holmes is the disguise he has crafted does just that, hides in plain sight. After all who would actually suspect a genius sociopath who spends his time solving crimes of being a real psychopath, when he seemingly carelessly makes himself seem so damn guilty. No, no one who truly knows Sherlock Holmes would suspect the darkness that lurks beneath the surface because he has built layers and layers into his facade. It’s brilliance at its finest, playing the part of a man just dark enough to distract from and hide the sinister soul deep inside him. 

I know. I can see who he is; Sherlock Holmes is the Devil. I should know, I have seen the bad of every country and every culture and not a soul compares. Everyone kneels before me, I control all the pieces, except for him. It is Always him, always has been, since I first heard of him, first met him, spoke to him. I could see it in him in the lab and at the pool when he rescued his dear Doctor Watson. Ever since I realized Sherlock was, deep down, as psychopathic as I was I had to have a taste. We fell into our little game, the rush he gave me was like no other. And I was his drug, he could not stay away either. And so it began, we kept up the charade of the perfect enemies, although I suppose in a way we always were rivals, in crime, in bed, in life. I saw the sick thrill he got when I conducted one of my sweet little murder mysteries. Hardly hiding his lust for it from his friends Sherlock danced with me, fell into my pit of darkness. I was seeping into his thoughts, his dreams, his veins like a poison he was powerless to stop. Everything he did, every little emotion he showed for his little pets was a lie, and only I could see it. Mycroft was wrong, and later poor Eurus, their brother was not the emotional one, the one who truly cared for people. He was more sinful than they could ever be, he did not toy with people’s lives or merely manipulate them. He stole their hearts and forced them to dance for him. The closest a man like that can get to love was the intoxication I gave to him. 

What I never saw, however, was the depth of his foulness. I never calculated what his interactions with me would turn him into. I loved the feeling of corruption, the feeling that I was the one to drive him to his limits. I believed that the relationship we created together was something true. After all I had never experienced anything like it, I could see the light leave a child’s eyes and simply grin, I could break the hearts of poor lost girls and boys without batting an eye. I was ruthless and despicable, building my empire on bodies and broken dreams. Yet, no one made me feel alive like he could.  
But I should have seen it. How could I have missed it. I miss nothing. Except him. I missed the signs. He would play games, manipulate my feelings, control my actions, but I thought it was a game. The cruel and twisted game we both loved, that quenched that skin crawling boredom we shared. Then he grew colder, the psychopath rose to the surface. 

The first hit came after a messy little murder. We were high on the adrenaline, his chest was heaving, face and arms dripping with blood, his shirt blooming crimson. He was grinning at me like a madman and I knew I had the same sick look plastered on my face. He truly was the epitome of beauty and grace. He killed a man with the same finesse he uses to coax a song out of his violin. And he struck my face with that same passion. I stood there shocked for a moment. Then he laughed, he hit me again, the pain blossoming over my jaw and cheek moments after the force of his hand knocked me to the ground. And he laughed, his eyes dead and black. Kneeling down before me the tall man grabbed my collar and pulled me towards himself. He tenderly kissed the spot where a bruise was sure to appear, then stood and left the room without a word. 

Sherlock never struck or kicked me when he was angry, though he rarely felt that emotion. No, he would hurt me for fun, and I loved it. I learned to love him, learned to love the pain that would spread across my face or ribs. I know it means he loves me back. Now he hits me and it feels like a kiss.


End file.
